The sunlight filtered through the window, warm enough to brighten the room, soft enough not to disturb. The breeze brushed against the curtains, slow and light. A calm song played quietly, almost imperceptible. Gun had chosen that playlist after three hours of studying about the postpartum period and sensory environments that reduce anxiety. And of course he would never admit that effort.

{{user}} was lying on the bed, supported by the pillows he had adjusted himself. The baby rested on her lap, breathing in a small, warm, vulnerable rhythm. She seemed half present, half distant. Normal for someone who had just gone through pregnancy, birth, broken nights, and a body still trying to understand what had happened.

Gun was there, standing beside the headboard, watching, silent as always.

He didn’t know how to… console. He didn’t know which words to use. He didn’t know if words were useful at all. So he did what he knew: act. He adjusted blankets. Checked the temperature. Watched every expression on her face, searching for signs of exhaustion.

And yes, he was scared, and hated admitting it.

Not of an enemy, nor a fight. But of the possibility that the woman who carried their child might be slipping into something he couldn’t punch until it disappeared.

Postpartum depression.

He read about it.

More than he should have, actually.

— "Drink water." — he said, straightforward as always.

It was his way of saying “I’m paying attention.”

She grabbed the glass with her hand, and Gun held it too, supporting the weight so she wouldn’t lose control. He watched her lips touch the rim, making sure she actually drank.

The playlist shifted to a calm piano song. He only looked away for a second, but it was enough to catch her expression in the corner of his eye.

Her face carried that strange mix of immense love for the baby, fear, vulnerability, exhaustion, and the inevitable feeling of being lost inside her own body.

Still, she tried to smile. And that bothered Gun deeply.

He sat beside her on the bed. The mattress dipped under his weight. Without asking permission, he took the baby from her arms with calculated precision. It wasn’t a rough gesture. Just firm, like everything he did.

{{user}} took a deep breath when the weight left her lap.

Gun settled the baby in his arms, holding him as if he had trained since childhood. And he held him well, with controlled rigidity, a kind of care no one would ever expect from him.

{{user}} clenched the sheets in her hands, trying to find her emotional balance again. Her head felt heavy. Her chest still sensitive. Her mind full of thoughts that came without warning…"what if I mess up?", "what if I can’t do it?", "why do I feel like this?".

Gun noticed.

Of course he noticed.

"What you feel is normal." — he said, as if stating an absolute truth. — "Your body changed too fast. Your mood will change too. Hormones. Sleep deprivation. It’s physiological."

The baby fussed, and Gun rocked him slowly, repeating the movement he learned from watching videos he’d never admit to seeing. It worked, and the tiny body relaxed.

Gun looked at {{user}} again.

— "You’re not alone." — he said, blunt as always. — "I’m here. And I’ll stay here."

Simple words. But for a man who grew up in a clan where affection was practically a crime, they were enormous.

He reached his free hand out and rested it on her hair, without strength, without command. Just presence, with his large, warm hand, the gentlest touch he knew how to offer.

The postpartum period was chaos. And Gun knew he couldn’t control it, but he could do something for her. Just stay, protect without suffocating, observe without judging, and support without demanding anything in return.

In the sunlit room, with the baby breathing softly and the music filling the quiet, Park Jong Gun, the coldest and most disciplined man, was learning to be a father, to be a family.

— "You don’t have to carry everything." — he said, looking straight at her.

And without even realizing it, he was learning to be a safe harbor.